


i know that i’m a handful, baby (i never think before i jump)

by softeldritch



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Pining, Sharing Clothes, Winnipeg Jets, who wants a fresh organic homegrown rarepair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22807861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softeldritch/pseuds/softeldritch
Summary: It’s not a date, but . . . Mason’s still a little too tipsy. His heart keeps skipping in his chest.Especially because Jack’s still wearing his jacket.(or, five times jack wears mason’s clothes and one time he doesn't.)
Relationships: Jack Roslovic/Mason Appleton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 115





	i know that i’m a handful, baby (i never think before i jump)

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been thinking about the angiosperms for weeks now please someone help me
> 
> (title from _me!_ by taylor swift and brendon urie)

**one.**

Jack is very, very drunk.

Right now he’s a warm, kinda sweaty weight pressed up against Mason’s side, giggling about something with Kyle across the table. His cheeks are flushed, eyes big and dark and shiny, mouth stained red from that alarmingly colourful shot he got first thing into the night. His hair’s a mess and his clothes are rumpled and he looks like he just stumbled out of bed with someone. That’s what Jack _always_ looks like when he’s drunk.

Mason is also, maybe, a little bit drunk, which is probably why he can’t stop thinking about stumbling _into_ bed with him. 

Usually he’s better at _not_ staring at the mole at the corner of Jack’s mouth thinking about what it’d be like to kiss it, but usually he’s not stuffed into a bar booth with a steady supply of shots constantly appearing out of nowhere. He’s not even really sure who keeps ordering them, just that after every shot Jack licks his lips and it’s starting to make Mason lightheaded.

Again, though, that might just be because he’s drunk.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Jack exclaims at something Kyle just said, slamming his hands on the table so hard Mason’s drink almost sloshes over. “I’ll fight you, KC, wanna fight?”

His eyes are huge, and his hands are pale and pretty spread on the dark wood table, and Mason’s hand tightens around his glass. Condensation drips over his fingers. He probably can’t blame his heartbeat on being drunk.

Kyle laughs, the sound slurring with his words. “Just ‘cause you’re wrong—“

“I’m not _wrong_.” Jack sounds almost offended. His hand smacks against Mason’s chest. “Apple, back me up.”

“Uh.” Mason blinks. He stares down at Jack’s hand, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt. Does . . . does Jack even know he’s doing it? 

“_Dude_,” Kyle drawls. It takes Mason a second to even register, and a few seconds longer to tear his eyes away from Jack’s hand. 

When he glances up he regrets it pretty much immediately, because Kyle’s _smirking_ at him. It’s only halfway effective because he also looks like he’s about to pass out sitting up, but it’s enough to make Mason’s whole face flush uncomfortably hot.

“I’m staying out of it,” Mason hears himself say through the rushing in his ears. Jack’s _still_ tugging on his shirt. “You guys can sort it out.”

“C’mon,” Jack whines, staring up at Mason with big, dark doe-eyes, mouth twisted in a pout. Mason’s ears go hot. “It’s KC, when has he ever been right about anything?” He tugs at Mason’s shirt a little harder. “Just say you agree with me.”

Mason swallows. Blinks. He’s pretty sure some sober part of him knows that doing whatever Jack asks _isn’t_ the right idea.

“Yeah, Rosie’s right,” he says, eyes caught on the way Jack’s eyes crinkle up when he grins. Briefly, he considers asking what he just agreed to—but judging from Jack’s wicked grin, he probably doesn’t want to know.

Despite how much he really, _really_ wants to know.

“Gross,” Kyle says indistinctly. Mason hasn’t really looked away from Jack’s softening grin, so he only kinda sees Kyle shoving at Connor next to him and scooting out of the booth. “I’m out. I’m done.”

Jack’s still grinning when he grabs Mason’s drink, prying it out of his hand with nimble fingers. There’s a bright red flush high on his cheeks as he chews on the straw, eyebrows waggling. He is so, so drunk, and Mason is so, _so_ fucked.

“Wanna dance?” Jack asks, the little black straw still resting on his tongue.

Mason’s words stick in his throat. He swallows dryly, cheeks so hot he’s pretty sure there’s not enough blood getting to his brain. That’d explain why it takes him five full seconds to even hear what Jack said instead of imagining his fingers in Jack’s mouth.

“No,” he mumbles, way too late, and Jack laughs.

“You never dance with me.”

Mason shrugs. “I’m not really a dancer, you know that.”

That’s only half true. The other half is that he knows how Jack dances when he’s drunk, and he knows nothing good can come of subjecting himself to that.

“Boooo,” Jack drawls. He grins around the straw. “You never do anything fun.”

Mason at least still has the faculties to roll his eyes, which is the only real response to that statement. He does plenty of fun things, especially when he’s drunk, especially when he’s drunk with _Jack_. He just . . . knows his own limits, mostly, and he doesn’t wanna pop a boner from dancing with one of his best friends.

Jack stares up at him for a long, quiet moment, eyes narrowing as he chews on the straw. Then his eyes light up—Mason’s stomach swoops—and his hand shoots up to clumsily fumble the beanie off Mason’s head. He tugs it down over his own mess of curls before Mason can think of trying to snatch it back, or even ask _what the fuck_.

It still takes a few seconds to ask, because Jack looks so happy about it, and Mason’s tongue’s stuck in his mouth again.

“What the fuck?” he manages eventually. 

“What?” Jack takes an obscenely long sip of Mason’s drink. He licks the corners of his mouth, teeth pressing into his lower lip as he grins impishly up at Mason. “It looks better on me, right?”

That’s one of those things Mason isn’t supposed to say yes to.

“It covers up your hair, so yeah,” he manages, after way too long a pause.

Jack’s eyes light up. “Exactly. You look better without hats, gotta show off the hair.” There’s a mean edge to his grin as he reaches up. Mason knows what he’s going for but can’t really make himself react, other than sucking down a breath of air. “I really like your hair,” Jack says, a little quieter, and his fingers drag lightly over Mason’s scalp, so gentle it makes him shiver.

Then Jack tugs, a little too hard, and Mason stops breathing for a bit.

“Yeah,” Jack says, patting Mason’s head affectionately before wrapping both hands around Mason’s drink. He grins, blindingly bright. “Totally looks better on me.”

**two.**

Mason’s still getting dressed after his post-game shower, shirt buttoned halfway up his chest and tie draped over his shoulders, when Jack sidles up into his space. He’s not exactly subtle, so Mason glances over in his direction with a grin, ready to ask what he wants—

But then Jack grabs one end his tie and slowly drags it down from his neck, grinning the whole time. The back of Mason’s neck tingles. Finally the tie slides off, hanging from Jack’s hand between them.

The moment lingers between them a second too long, and Mason’s cheeks go warm. 

“Trade you,” Jack says after another second, grin curling wider.

“What?”

Jack’s already looping Mason’s tie around his neck, letting it hang there as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own tie. He drapes it around Mason’s neck, moving weirdly slow, eyes zeroing in on his own nimble fingers.

Eventually Mason gets his voice back. “What are you even doing?”

Jack doesn’t answer. Jack starts doing up the buttons on Mason’s shirt. 

His fingertips brush against Mason’s chest, dry and a little cold, and Mason almost stumbles back in surprise. He really only manages to stay standing by sheer force of will alone, as Jack runs a smoothing hand up the front of his shirt.

“Rosie,” Mason says again, managing not to sound too strangled. Jack starts working at the tie, slowly looping it into a knot Mason can’t recognize with his brain so frazzled. “What the fuck, dude. Why are you trying to be my dad?”

“Gross, dude, I’m not into daddy kink.”

“You—_Jack_.” Mason grabs Jack’s hand, crushing his fingers, glaring as fiercely as he can through what he’s sure is a pretty remarkable blush. “Can you at least explain yourself like a normal person?”

Jack doesn’t look especially bothered about Mason’s grip. “Like I said,” he chirps, big brown eyes and a wide grin, “trade you.”

Mason drops his hand. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Wow, shocker.”

“Shut up, dumbass.”

Jack finishes up with Mason’s tie, then pats his chest and steps away. The second he’s out of Mason’s orbit, Mason can suddenly breathe a little easier again.

Until Jack starts doing up _his_—Mason’s—tie.

Heat climbs up Mason’s cheeks and spreads down his chest, a weird fluttery feeling in his gut as he watches Jack’s nimble fingers knotting up the tie. He’s a lot faster than he was with Mason, and as he tightens the knot around his throat, it kinda hits Mason like a truck that that’s _his_ tie. Stupidly, there’s something _intimate_ about it, even though Jack’s probably just doing it to be a shit.

It’s just a lot to deal with, conceptually.

It’s especially a lot to deal with the whole bus ride back to the hotel, as Jack sits next to him and spends the entire time playing on his Switch and chewing absently on the tip of the tie.

Mason doesn’t start breathing again until he’s alone in his hotel room.

**three.**

“Fu-uuck,” Jack whines, shaking arms curling even tighter around his chest. “Fuck, it’s cold.” Fog clouds his breath as he talks, teeth chattering obnoxiously as he glances down the street for the fifth time in a minute, obviously looking for the Uber they called.

Mason doesn’t even feel a little bit bad for him. “Wear a jacket next time, dumbass.” He’s toasty warm, because he had the foresight to wear a hoodie and a denim jacket in a Winnipeg fall.

Jack scoffs, like the idea is ridiculous. He leans out into the street again, half-teetering on one foot.

Well, it was his idea to go out with the guys tonight, his idea to break off from the rest of the group to get something to eat, and Mason’s not gonna be swayed by his violent shivering or his pale lips or his big, pathetic eyes. Even if he does look completely pitiful, all curled into himself, small in a way he doesn’t usually look. Even if his constant shifting keeps accentuating the muscle in his bare arms.

Mason tears his eyes away and checks for their Uber.

“I’m fucking freezing, fuck.” Jack shakes his head, wriggling around in place, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. “Fuck Winnipeg.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a jacket, then?” Mason asks, because _someone_ should probably be the voice of reason here.

Jack glares at him. It’s not as effective when his cheeks and the tip of his nose are bright pink from the cold—or not effective the way it should be, because it just makes Mason’s chest flutter and warmth flush up his cheeks that has nothing to do with the chill. “Because I look good in this shirt,” Jack drawls, plucking at the bottom hem of the t-shirt, “and a jacket would completely ruin the look?”

He’s . . . not wrong, actually. The shirt is perfectly tight around his waist and Mason’s only just tipsy enough to start imagining how Jack’s waist would fit in his hands, how his spine would feel if Mason traced his fingers up his back. 

His blush definitely has nothing to do with the cold now. Mason swallows, shifting his weight and breathing down a lungful of cold air. “Oh, yeah, makes sense,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “My mistake. I’m so sorry.”

Jack scrunches up his nose. “Yeah, you should be.” 

Another violent shiver runs through him.

Fuck.

“You look like a stray cat,” Mason says, shrugging out of his denim jacket, immediately clenching his teeth at the bitter chill of the wind blowing through his hoodie. He shoves the jacket in Jack’s direction, suddenly really grateful that his blush is masked by cold flush as Jack just stares at him with huge, dark eyes. “Take it, dude. You need it more than me, and watching you freeze to death isn’t how I want to spend my Saturday.”

“Awww,” Jack coos, clumsily tugging on the jacket. “You’d miss me.”

Mason’s response dies on his tongue as Jack pulls the jacket tight, tucking his face into the collar. Jack looks . . . really good. And the fact that it’s Mason’s jacket—he almost looks like he could be Mason’s boyfriend, like they share clothes all the time, and it doesn’t something weird and wobbly and warm to Mason’s insides as he stares at the way Jack’s strong, narrow shoulders just barely fill out the jacket.

Good thing he’s only tipsy, not drunk, because he wants to do something really stupid. Like take Jack’s red hands in his and warm them up, or something dumb like that.

Their Uber pulls up to the curb a half minute later. Jack tumbles in first, baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, and Mason follows as he’s telling the driver to take them to the nearest Tims. Mason stares out the front window the entire drive, thinking about putting his hand on Jack’s thigh, thinking about Jack putting a hand on _his_ thigh—

(He knows Jack would do it, because Jack’s hands always run cold and he’s a nightmare about it, touching the back of Mason’s neck whenever they come in from outside.)

They get to Tims a couple minutes later and settle at a corner table with a couple coffees and five breakfast sandwiches between them. 

It’s not a date, but . . . Mason’s still a little too tipsy. His heart keeps skipping in his chest.

Especially because Jack’s still wearing his jacket.

He’s still wearing Mason’s jacket, and he’s settled into it like it belongs to him, sleeves cuffed and his phone stuffed into the front pocket. He grins at Mason with half a hashbrown caught between his teeth, the toe of his sneaker poking at Mason’s ankle, and Mason—

Mason’s having a really, _really_ hard time remembering that this isn’t a date.

“Do you wanna go back to the guys?” Jack asks, once they’ve eaten and sobered up. He’s still gently nudging Mason’s calf with his foot, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Maybe he doesn’t, actually. 

Mason shrugs. “I’m good with going home if you are.”

Jack smiles at him. The mole stretches with it, and Mason wants to kiss it. “Cool, same.” Jack stands up and stretches towards the ceiling, groaning so low that Mason’s neck flushes. He offers a grin, kicking Mason’s foot a little more deliberately this time. “It was more fun just hanging out with you, anyway.”

Heat prickles under Mason’s skin. He nods, smiling back because suddenly his tongue is too big for his mouth.

(He doesn’t realize that Jack’s still wearing his jacket until he gets home, but he doesn’t really care. It looks better on Jack anyway.)

**four.**

Half an hour ago, Mason made a really stupid decision. Monumentally stupid. Probably one of the worst decisions he’s ever made, actually, the kind of decision that’s gonna completely ruin his life. 

He agreed to come over to Jack’s place to use his hot tub.

Now, standing in the nighttime chill, watching Jack strip off his t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, he’s definitely regretting it. Jack stumbles a bit hopping out of his pants, the leg catching on his foot until he manages to rip them off all the way, and he tosses them across his deck haphazardly. Then he’s standing there in nothing but his swim trunks, skin pale in the moonlight, slim and toned and way too much for Mason to handle, right now.

“Dude,” Jack says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin curled wide across his face. His eyes look even bigger in the darkness. “You gonna get in the tub with your clothes on?”

Oh, yeah. Right. Mason tugs off his hoodie and slips out of his sweats, dropping them in a semi-neat pile on the deck. Goosebumps spread over his skin immediately and he rushes to the hot tub, stepping in without even checking and almost boiling his foot. “Fuck,” he hisses, then sits down as quickly as possible. “Fuck!”

Jack’s eyes scrunch up with a laugh. “It’s not a race.”

Msaon’s chest feels tight and foggy, only half because of the sudden pressure of the hot water and the steam he’s breathing in. Jack’s still grinning at him, bright and boyish, and his collarbones are just barely peeking up above the bubbling surface of the water. Mason thinks about getting his mouth on them and _wants_ so desperately his head spins.

“It’s cold out,” he complains, shaking the thought away. “Why’d you want to use a hot tub in this weather?”

Shrugging, Jack leans back, settling against the wall of the hot tub. “That’s how the Europeans do it, right?” His eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his cheekbones. Mason stares, burning under his skin. “Except I think they do it in winter. Maybe in a couple months, eh?”

“‘Eh’?” Mason barks out a laugh. “What are you, Canadian?”

“You can’t tell anyone I said that.”

“What are you gonna give me to make sure I don’t?”

Silence stretches between them. Slowly, deliberately, Jack opens his eyes and looks at Mason directly, eyes half-lidded and dark, something wicked lingering around the edges of his barely-there smile. It ignites a fire in Mason’s gut and he swallows hard, caught between pushing away and following the draw of Jack’s gaze.

He doesn't really do either of those things, and a few seconds later Jack’s eyes flutter shut again. “I’ll think of something,” Jack murmurs, sinking down into the water, a blissful sigh slipping out. “Later.”

They sit in silence for a long, quiet while after that, and Mason tries and fails not to stare.

Eventually, though, the heat is too much. Jack’s the first to climb out; water drips down his arms and his chest and his legs and Mason’s just kind of stuck, for a second, watching a droplet follow the grooves of his abdomen as he stretches and yawns. Then Jack’s eyes go wide and he yelps, “_fuck_, it’s cold!” and scrambles towards the pile of clothes on the deck.

Mason’s halfway out of the hot tub when he realizes that it’s _his_ pile of clothes, and Jack’s heading inside wearing nothing but his swim trunks and Mason’s old MSU hoodie.

Mason’s brain short-circuits. 

It’s really only the cold on his wet skin that makes him start moving again, running to tug on his sweats and follow Jack back inside his house. Then his brain breaks again, because Jack’s stretched out across a towel on the couch with one bare leg thrown over the back, and Mason’s imagining how easy it’d be to settle into place between his thighs—

He shakes the image away, blushing furiously. He doesn’t find his voice again until he’s looking inside the fridge, with Jack’s stupid toned legs blocked from view. “You have your own clothes,” he calls, willing the heat out from under his skin. Willpower isn’t really cutting it. “It’s fucking cold out there, Rosie.”

Jack’s laughter echoes into the kitchen. “You’ll live. Besides, it’s comfy.”

The image of him snuggling into the hoodie flashes through Mason’s head, and any progress he was making at calming down goes out the window. Fuck Jack.

Except. Literally.

Eventually Mason grabs himself and Jack a beer, takes a deep breath, and closes the fridge. He heads into the living room and his blood rushes south seeing Jack still sprawled on the couch in his hoodie, scrolling through his phone, lower lip caught between his teeth. He’s still flushed from the hot tub.

“Move your legs,” Mason says, holding out the second beer as an offering. Jack’s eyes light up and he curls his legs out of the way so Mason can sit—which _really_ doesn’t help, because his swim trunks are a little too short and now Mason can see the backs of his upper thighs. The skin there is pale and dotted with moles and Mason imagines trailing his fingertips over it, tracing constellations with the moles.

This is bad. This is so, so bad.

Mason cracks open the can of beer and probably drinks about half of it in one go, wincing at the bitterness. Maybe getting drunk when he’s half a foot away from Jack’s naked thighs isn’t a great idea but . . . he needs _some _kind of distraction.

“Movie?” Jack offers, holding up his controller. Mason nods.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen the entire way through the movie, and he doesn’t understand a single word of it. Probably because about halfway through Jack throws his legs over Mason’s lap, digging his heels into Mason’s thigh and just—staying there. As though Mason’s not about to spontaneously combust.

When the credits finally roll, Mason chances a glance in Jack’s direction, holding his breath so he doesn’t make some stupid noise.

And Jack’s asleep.

Of course Jack’s asleep.

Mason breathes in deep but it doesn’t feel like he’s getting much air at all. He heaves out a long, slow sigh, flushing when Jack shifts and mumbles in his sleep. Jack’s stupid swim trunks have ridden up, revealing even more pale skin.

God, Mason hates him. He really does.

Carefully, he slips Jack’s legs off his lap, flushing at the warmth of Jack’s bare skin. Then he stands and gathers up his and Jack’s beer cans, placing them silently in the recycling bin in the kitchen.

There’s nothing for him to really do but go home, at that point. It still takes Mason a few seconds of staring at Jack—still sprawled out in Mason’s hoodie, the MSU crest distinctly visible across his chest, face slack in sleep—before he can actually convince himself to leave. 

**five.**

“Fuck, it’s bad out there.” Mason lets the curtain fall, obscuring the blizzard whirling outside his apartment. He turns around to face Jack and shrugs. “Guess you’re staying here tonight.”

A grin tugs at Jack’s mouth, pulling the mole across his cheek. “It’ll be like a sleepover,” he coos, pushing away from where he’s leaning up against the back of the couch. “Speaking of sleepovers, I’m gonna need pajamas.” His grin brightens, eyes flashing. “Unless you don’t mind me sleeping in your guest bed naked.”

Mason rolls his eyes, heat climbing up the back of his neck. “I’ll get you something,” he says, turning away from Jack’s satisfied grin. “But you’re not using my toothbrush.”

“I promise I have a really clean mouth!”

“Dude.” Mason gives him a withering look over his shoulder. Jack grins back innocently. “Gross.”

“So we’re close, but not _that_ close.”

“Nobody’s _that_ close,” Mason says, heading into his bedroom and tugging open one of his drawers. He hears Jack pad in behind him, socked feet quiet on the carpet. “Don’t tell me you’d ever actually share a toothbrush with someone or I might have to kick you out of my house. Just, like, on principal.”

When he glances in Jack’s direction, he’s hit with batting eyelashes and big brown eyes. It’s ridiculous . . . and it also makes his chest feel all weird and bubbly. “Nobody but you, babe,” Jack croons, barely managing to get through it without dissolving into giggles. His eyes crinkle up when he laughs, nose scrunched up like a little kid, and Mason’s suddenly light-headed with how fond he feels.

“Gross,” he repeats, quieter, tugging out a pair of pajama pants and an old t-shirt and tossing them in Jack’s direction.

He’s not expecting how hard it hits him five minutes later, when Jack flops onto the couch in his pajamas. “Picked a movie yet?” His eyes are sleepy and dark, his smile relaxed, and with his bare feet propped up on the coffee table he looks . . . comfortable. He looks like he belongs there, in Mason’s clothes, in Mason’s apartment, in Mason’s life.

Mason blinks at him while his brain catches up with his ears. “Uh, yeah.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that, buddy,” Jack chirps. His smile is still soft and sleepy. Mason feels like he could drown in the look Jack is giving him right now; soft and tender and familiar. “Need some help?”

“I got it,” Mason drawls, his voice a little shaky. He presses play.

Mason knows it’s not something he can have, but . . . he wants to keep Jack here forever. Just like this, in this cozy atmosphere, a blizzard raging outside while they curl up on the couch and watch movies. He wants all the sappy shit that goes along with something like that.

When he glances at Jack, Jack meets his eyes with a smile.

**\+ one.**

The next morning, Mason gets up, makes himself coffee, and stands at his kitchen window watching fluffy white snow drift gently down, and he can almost forget that just down the apartment, Jack is sleeping in his pajamas. Almost. His mind keeps drifting to how soft Jack had looked last night, curled up against the arm of the couch, blinking sleepily up at Mason when he’d woken him up after the movie ended.

Mason’s pretty sure that kind of realization—the profound, earth-shattering, _I love this person_ realization—is supposed to happen with a lot more fireworks. Not standing in his own apartment, watching his friend stumble off to bed with a sleepy little wave.

Warmth flushes up his cheeks just thinking about it. Then his cheeks go hot, as Jack walks into the kitchen in just a towel, water dripping from his curls and down the slopes of his bare chest. 

His eyes land on Mason’s immediately. His head tilts, mouth quirking into something that’s not really a smile, brows raising. It draws Mason in like a magnet and he almost chokes on his coffee, hands suddenly shaking as he stares at the grip Jack has on the towel pulled tight around his narrow waist. When Jack starts approaching, steps into his space like he belongs there, Mason’s legs almost give out under him.

Mason opens his mouth, but the words catch in his throat. He swallows. Sets down his coffee mug, the clink of porcelain abrasively loud.

“You, uh . . .” He swallows again, scrambling for the words. “I can get you some other clothes?”

Jack grins, sharp and bright, and Mason feels like he’s been snagged on the edges. “Nope.”

He drops the towel.

Mason doesn’t really have a lot of time to think about that, though, because a second later Jack curls both hands around the back of Mason’s neck and drags him into a kiss.

For a second Mason’s frozen. Then Jack bites his lip _hard_ and it’s like everything slots into place; he curls his hands around Jack’s waist and leans into the kiss, matching the rhythm of Jack’s mouth. Jack tastes like mint mouthwash and he kisses as recklessly as he does anything else—biting at Mason’s mouth, licking at his tongue, plastering his naked, wet body up against Mason’s front.

All too quickly Mason loses his breath. He breaks away gasping, almost losing his mind when Jack just keeps mouthing at his jaw, digging his teeth in just above his beard.

“I’m _tired_ of waiting,” Jack snarls, hips grinding against Mason’s sending a shock of arousal down his spine. “I’ve wanted this for—”

He cuts himself off, kissing Mason again, so hard they almost stumble.

Good. Mason can’t stop thinking about _this_ long enough to pay attention to anything Jack might say.

Together they stumble down the hall to Mason’s bedroom, shoving each other up against walls on the way there; Jack bites a hickey high up on Mason’s throat so Mason gives him a matching one on his collarbone, then kisses along the length of them until Jack pushes him back. They fall into bed together and Mason’s clothes are already off—he barely remembers taking them off, only Jack’s nimble fingers, Jack’s frustrated noises and delighted little laughs.

Jack straddles him, grinning down at him like a predatory animal, little golden chain dangling. “Fuck,” Jack breathes, starting up a slow grind that has both of them gasping. “I’m in love with you, did you know that? You dumbass?”

“Shut up,” Mason manages, before cupping his hand around Jack’s skull and dragging him down into another kiss. “Me too.”

They get off like that, Jack rolling his hips and Mason meeting his rhythm, muffling noises into each others’ mouths. Mason feels like he’s going out of his mind with how _much_ it all is; Jack’s mouth and Jack’s heat and the fact that it’s _Jack_. When Jack reaches between them and gets a clever hand around both of them, Mason only lasts long enough to bite a mark into Jack’s throat before he whites out completely.

When he finally starts drifting back to himself, there’s a mess on his stomach and Jack’s mouthing up the line of his throat. Mason lays there in a puddle of his own limbs, too overwhelmed with . . . well, everything.

“Give me like, twenty minutes,” Jack mumbles into his skin. “Then I’ll ride you ‘til your dick falls off.”

Mason’s brain stalls, crashes, and reboots in about the span of five seconds.

“Uuuuhh,” he manages, heat burning over every inch of his skin. “Y’what?”

“That’s it?” Jack nips at his throat one last time before leaning up until they’re face to face. He’s grinning, his eyes big and dark and wild, mouth red and swollen from kissing. Mason can’t stop staring at the mole on his cheek. “Babe, we really have to work on your pillow talk.”

Mason blushes so hard he gets dizzy. But maybe that’s just because he has Jack on top of him.

“You’re literally so annoying,” he mumbles, only slurring the words a little bit. “Shut up.”

Jack grins wickedly, and something between terror and arousal zips up Mason’s spine like a lightning strike.

“Make me.”

Mason knows what that gleam in Jack’s eye means; he’s in for quite a fucking ride.

(Only this time, it’s a lot more literal.)

**Author's Note:**

> join me, everyone.
> 
> [tumblr](http://soft-eldritch.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](http://twitter.com/softeldritch)


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